


certamina inter nos

by ghostofgatsby



Series: with a heart unsatisfied [3]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Anxiety, Arguing, Churches & Cathedrals, Fictional Religion & Theology, Fire, Having Faith, Insecurity, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Miscommunication, Multi, Ovidian Magic, Pythagoreanism, Queer Catholics, Relationship Issues, Religion, Religion as Magic, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Roman Catholicism, University, praying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-09-25 02:06:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9797648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: Smith steps past the gated entrance and tugs at his hair under his hat, trying to will away the stress as he paces. Trott could have gotten hurt- but he was fine. It could have been worse, but it wasn’t. Ross had wanted Smith to help him make a protection charm, but Trott didn’t want Smith’s help. Why? Because he thought Smith thought less of him? Smith only hesitated because he wasn’t sure his magic would work to produce the intended effect. It had nothing to do with Trott’s magic and lack of religion- Trott should have known that.Smith expected- not that things were going to be easy, because they never were- but he expected things to be easier.And yet the people he trusted the most still had doubts in him. His own doubts bled into theirs, and communication issues just fucked it all up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> cw: Fire, communication issues, arguments, insecurity, Anxiety, implied past familial death/parental death/mentions of loss  
> religious content; Trott's supervisor is a bit bigoted, magic-wise; minor injury?, mention of hospitals/sickness/illness  
> if I need to tag something else, let me know
> 
> If you missed it (which you probably did unless you keep tabs on my wordpress blog) here's the playlist for this series. It's...weird, but...fitting?  
> playlist: https://play.spotify.com/user/ghostofgatsby/playlist/5JqgVjmVtrTVmGkDZCwZfk?play=true&utm_source=open.spotify.com&utm_medium=open  
> tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/01/25/what-weird-mix-of-70s-90s-00s-style-catholic-irish-crap-is-this-playlist/
> 
> also, if you like the style of the playlist, you might like Ali Dineen. she has a very folksy/Billy Joel vibe.
> 
> certamina inter nos, or "conflicts between us" in Google-translate-cobbled Latin
> 
> Let me know what sounds interesting about this AU- fire away those questions you’re curious about. Getting feedback on what you like lets me know what you want to see/what direction to go in- and comments are always much appreciated.  
> (next two chapters? will be posted whenever I get around to finishing them)
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/02/17/certamina-inter-nos-ghostofgatsby/

Trott is sitting in the stacks on the fifth floor of the library when the fire alarm sounds. He flinches and shoves his chair back from the table, wincing at the blaring klaxon making his ears ring. He rushes past wooden tables and old, dusty bookcases, ducking under a stone arch to the stairs leading down. Grey-black smoke is trailing up the stairwell. Other library patrons stumble out through the door to the fourth floor, and a giant plume of smoke rushes upwards and clogs Trott’s throat. He doubles over coughing with the others.

The air smells of burnt carpet and gas. They crouch lower to the ground, passing under the flashing exit lights pointing them three floors downwards. Over the library intercom, the university fire department calls for an entire evacuation of the building. Normally, only the affected floor and one above and below it would be evacuated, but the fire must have gotten worse enough for them to call it. The library is currently under renovation- Trott guessed that was the cause, as the library had only had a few fires over the past hundred years. He was thankful his office wasn't any higher up in the stupidly tall building- his legs are tired enough from clambering down five floors while trying to crouch.

Trott gasps for clean, crisp air along with the others from the fourth and fifth floors when they breach the outside. The university police have sectioned off the area around the library. There are crowds of students and faculty pouring out the doors into the awaiting cold, some with laptops and textbooks in hand, backpacks slung over their shoulders. Safety directors are waving them away from the building in case the windows explode outward.

Coughing, eyes watering, Trott meets up with one of the library directors, his research supervisor, other classics and linguistics librarians, and various first-responder personnel at their designated meeting place. One of the Library Security Monitors, a frazzled Irish woman with bright red hair, is making frenzied calls about preserving materials.

The wind twists through the trees, and the sky above them is gray with snow-clouds. Flecks of near-frost catch in Trott’s hair and on his cheeks. He doubles over, coughing again, and his supervisor claps him on the shoulder to ask if he’s alright. Before Trott can get much of a word in edgewise, his supervisor starts judgmentally asking about where he’d been when the fire started. Their department is small, but Trott still feels hounded by his supervisor’s questions, calmly explaining he’d been researching, not practicing magic. No, he _hadn’t_ set the building on fire, actually.

Fucking coworkers, always assuming ill of him because he practiced Ovidian magic, a perspective that was always relevant in his research despite their upturned noses at the idea. Ovid came before Christ, but some righteous Catholics he worked with talked behind his back, saying he was looking for truth in outdated places. Sure, say people who pay more attention to the Old Testament than the New.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, Trott’s hacking coughs allow him to be escorted away by paramedics to be checked over. It's a blur, after that- Trott texts Smith and Ross to let them know he’s alright, and asks Ross to come pick him up, as Smith’s currently teaching classes northways across campus.

Trott sits in the back of an ambulance with a blanket draped over his lap. He pulls his legs up and curls into himself to try to keep warm. It’s getting colder now, and his ears are feeling numb. The paramedics gave him an oxygen mask for the smoke inhalation and set about helping others with the same thing. No one seems to be any more injured than that- though that Irish librarian might be crying about the possible damage to the books...

There’s a crowd at the edges of the wooden blockades the university police have set up. Eventually, Trott sees Ross push his way through, and calmly but quickly persuade his way to the ambulance Trott is sitting in.

Trott pulls the oxygen mask down, frowning at the annoying feeling of the elastic band catching around his ears.

Ross’ face is flushed, from running or the cold, Trott isn’t sure. He strips off his coat, a black military-style peacoat Trott bought him several Christmases ago, and drapes it around Trott’s shoulders when he nears him.

Trott sucks in a cold breath of winter air to say something and ends up coughing.

Ross smiles sadly, his eyebrows furrowing in concern as he adjusts Trott’s oxygen mask back over his mouth. “Alright there, Trott? I’ve been telling you, you breathe in too much book dust, you nerd,” he says affectionately, his voice tinged with worry.

“You can’t talk, Ross, you study numbers for a living,” Trott grumbles. His voice is muffled by his smoke-roughened throat and the plastic mask on his face.

Ross wraps his coat a little tighter around him and pulls another pair of gloves out of the front pocket. “What caused the fire, did they say?”

Trott shakes his head. He’s too tired to fight with Ross tugging gloves over his hands like he’s a child. “The renovations, probably. I was up on the fifth floor, and got caught in thick smoke on the way downstairs. Paramedics said I only have light smoke inhalation, but if the coughing gets any worse or I get a fever, I should get myself checked into the ER. They’ll probably let us leave here when they clear the building.”

Ross nods sagely. He brushes Trott’s bangs out of his eyes and cups his cheek. His gloves are butter-soft to the touch. “I’m glad you’re alright, Trott.” He smiles. “It wasn’t that serious, but...still.”

Trott smiles wearily back. “Yeah. Me too, sunshine. Not often that your place of work catches fire...” He looks over Ross’ shoulder, to where the university fire department and other personnel are swarming the entrance. If he listens closely, he can hear his supervisor asking about any damage to the fifth floor offices. Because that’s More Important than his employees and the students- at least when it comes to the atheist magic-practicing ones...

Ross moves closer to him to block him from the wind. Trott sighs and leans into Ross’ touch. His body warmth is comforting.

Ross presses a tentative kiss to his forehead. Trott isn’t usually okay with public displays of affection- he’s never liked the attention from bystanders who don’t need to know his business- but it’s just the two of them in this ambulance, and despite the crowds, it feels sectioned off and private. Peaceful, almost, Smith would probably say.

Trott winces at the sound of his supervisor’s yelling cutting through the crowd again. The man was always anal about something that wasn’t how he wanted it to be.

Ross’ hand moves from his cheek. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I just…” Trott sighs. “If they think it was me, I’ll be fired.”

Ross frowns. “But it wasn’t you. Why would they think it was?”

“ _Because_. The Classics department isn’t always neutral when it comes to magic,” Trott mutters.

“That’s fucking dumb, considering what they study.” Ross rolls his eyes. “And it wasn’t you, right? And you’ve told them it wasn’t?”

“Yeah...I’ve told them.” Trott looks up at Ross, a contradiction hesitant on his tongue. _But what’s my word against theirs, if they choose to villainize me?_

“It’ll be fine, Trott. Alright? Don’t worry.” Ross kisses his forehead again.

Trott rubs the side of his nose where the plastic oxygen mask is digging into his skin, and looks away again. “Yeah, sure.” At least he’ll probably be covered under worker’s comp for the extra oxygen and the time off to recuperate.

“It’ll be _fine_ …just fine, okay? You worry too much.” Ross kisses his hair, and then scrunches his face up in disgust. “Fuck, you reek of smoke, though, Trott. Holy fucking _shit_. It’s horrible! Fuck!”

“Thanks, Ross.” Trott smiles, unamused. “And here I thought I’d start wearing Eau de Burnt Library more often.”

 

Smith tries not to rush home in panic. He’d heard about the fire before he checked his phone, and there had been a split-second where the fear punched him in the chest. After his classes, he’d had a faculty meeting he wasn’t allowed to skip. He’d spent most of it in a daze, his fingers sliding across the rosary beads in his pocket in search of comfort. Trott had said he was fine, but even the thought that he could have been hurt worse made Smith scared. When he gets back to the apartment, he walks in, hearing coughing.

“Trott?” Smith drops his bags by the door and hurries towards the sound.

Ross and Trott are in Trott’s room, with it's overflowing bookcases and vague smell of old paper and scented candles. The window is open a crack, seeping in cold air. Piles of blankets are heaped like a nest on Trott’s twin bed that he never sleeps in.

Ross is rubbing Trott’s back as he coughs. “Hey, Smith,” he greets softly.

Smith gapes, worried, hovering in the doorway. “Are you alright? The library got set on _fire?_ ”

Trott clears his throat. “I’m fine,” he rasps, “just some smoke inhalation.”

“‘Just smoke inhalation’ isn’t _fine_ , Trott.” Smith sighs and sits down on Trott’s other side. The collar of his starched white button down and the red half-windsor knot of his tie peeks through his half-unzipped coat.

“I wasn’t close to the fire itself, I just got caught in some smoke. They said an electrical short started it on the fourth floor, where they’re doing the renovations. I was one floor up when the alarm sounded.”

“Fuck.” Smith runs a hand through his hair. “But you got out okay.”  
Trott rolls his eyes. “Obviously, Smith. I wouldn’t be sitting here, otherwise.”

Smith’s chest pangs at the thought, that he could have been sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, had things been much, much worse.

“Smith, I had an idea,” Ross starts slowly, meeting Smith’s eyes over Trott’s shoulder, “I told it to Trott already, but I want to see what you think-”

“Ross, I told you- I don’t need anything,” Trott interrupts tiredly.

Ross continues anyway, “I think maybe we could weave Trott a protection charm of some sort? I could make him a bracelet- I have beads and stuff. Something to protect him against fire and smoke, ease his breathing, and promote healing.”

“That sounds helpful…” Smith says slowly.

“What, because I’ve set things on fire before? This wasn’t my fault!” Trott snaps.

“Trott, we _know that-_ ” Ross says gently, “That’s not what we’re trying to say.”

Smith reaches towards him, sliding his hand across the quilted comforter on Trott’s bed, but Trott shies away from his touch.

"I don't need either of you mothering me," Trott grumbles, "For fuck's sake, I'm not weak! It’s just some smoke inhalation. I know you keep seeing me as the guy who set off the dorm fire alarms in junior year, but I'm not the same fuck-up I was before." He covers his mouth with a fist as he coughs.

"You weren't a fuck-up _then_ , Trott," Smith says, frowning in confusion, “Fucking hell...I'm just glad you're alright. It could have been worse-” His voice cracks.

"Well, _it wasn't_ worse! I’m fine. I can handle things myself; I've told you that before." Trott shakes his head and pointedly stares at the floor between their feet.

“We’re not saying you can’t handle it, Trott. We just want to help.” Ross sighs, removing his hand from Trott’s shoulder. “A magical protection charm would help the healing process. It would be stronger with the both of us adding to it. That’s why I think Smith should help me with it.” He addresses Smith with a nod. “If you could?”

Smith hesitates, tracing the patterns on the fabric beneath his hand. “...I don’t know if it’ll work...”

Trott bristles. “What, because I’m not a fucking servant of the lord like you are? Ross can do it if he wants. If you don’t want to help him, that’s fine.”

“Wh- that’s not what I- Trott, wait a minute-” Smith stammers.

Trott crosses his arms over his chest. “Just fuck off, Smith. Ross’ll handle it, if that’s what he wants to do.”

“Trott-” Ross protests weakly. He shares a pained look with Smith over Trott’s head. Trott glares at the floor and starts coughing again.

Smith snaps his mouth shut and grinds his teeth, admonished. Trott said things he didn't mean when he was stressed and tired, and Smith knew that. But it didn't make the situation better. “Alright...alright.” He stands up and backs out of the room slowly, hands raised up placatingly. “I’ll- I’m going for a walk. I’ll...be back later, then.”

Trott doesn’t look him in the eye, or say anything. Ross tells him to be careful. Smith turns and leaves the room.

He regrets leaving them the instant the apartment door shuts behind him.

 

* * *

 

Smith trudges a path through a fine layer of snow and across his university’s campus. He detours through the cemetery, past graves with names of Hungarian descent- there’s a tall stone cross, labeled Locsmandy at the foot, and a marble pedestal with the name Kovacs inscribed on it. At the back of the cemetery are the entombed Fathers of the university. Smith moves away from the campus gates and the golden light of the main building, and finds his way towards the winding path leading to the grotto.

The empty night sky stretches above him, too dark to see stars, and no moon in sight. Campus is peacefully silent. Smith rubs his cheeks with his sleeve, and the fabric comes away wet. His face feels like it’s burning in the January cold. Anger at himself settles in his throat and chest. He replays his actions in his head, trying to figure out where he went wrong, and trudges down the small grotto steps with a sigh.

The hundreds of candles lining the alcoves bathe the stone recess in a warm golden glow. The statue of the Virgin Mary looks down upon him, backlit and bright among the snow-dusted rocks. The hearth-like magic emanating from the stones washes over him, warming his ice-bitten toes and filling him with soothing harmony, easing his worries just the slightest.

Smith steps past the gated entrance and tugs at his hair under his hat, trying to will away the stress as he paces. _Calm down already,_ he snaps at himself, _just fucking calm down._ His thoughts spin in agitated circles. Trott could have gotten hurt- but he was fine. It could have been worse, but it wasn’t. Ross had wanted Smith to help him make a protection charm, but Trott didn’t want Smith’s help. Why? Because he thought Smith thought less of him? That wasn’t true. Smith only hesitated because he wasn’t sure his magic would work to produce the intended effect. It had nothing to do with Trott’s magic and lack of religion- Trott should have known that. And yet-

Smith muffles an anxiety-filled screech into his gloves. His boots crunch across the salted concrete. He’s glad that he’s blissfully, blessedly alone. No one’s here to see him like this.

He expected- not that things were going to be easy, because they never were- but he expected things to be _easier_.

And yet the people he trusted the most still had doubts in him. His own doubts bled into theirs, and communication issues just fucked it all up.

Smith stops his pacing and catches his breath, watching the golden flames of the candles flicker against the grotto walls. He felt at fault for their argument, even though Trott out of all of them was only good at words when it came to magic. It was Trott’s perception that turned Smith’s care for him pear-shaped.

But even though that was the logical reason, it didn’t stick.

Smith’s magic was about faith; trusting in the paths laid before you. So many things are sins, in Catholicism, but for some things, he believes differently. He believes in God and His Word and the holiness and saving grace of it. His faith is strong, and he often wonders if he's so wrong- not to doubt, but to take in everything around him. And his greatest uncertainty lies not in his beliefs, but in the magic. Whether he has it or not. He has faith, but is it enough? He knows sometimes that it’s not enough at all.

Realistically, faith can't solve every problem. Faith doesn't always work to heal, to protect. No one truly knows what’s planned for them. Since faith is tied in with magic, that's what Smith doubts: the power of it. The power he’s capable of. Ross and Trott's magic is very bookish and tangible in what it produces, and his isn't, necessarily. Catholic magic is more...innate. You either have it or you don't.

Growing up, Smith was taught that magic usually runs strong in strong-faith Catholics. His mom doesn’t know if she has magic or not- if she does, she’s never consciously noticed it- and she was never a person of outwardly strong beliefs. Smith’s dad supposedly had very strong magic- something he boasted about constantly, despite being a person who helped anyone he could with it. Smith was raised to be humble about his magic, and aware and respectful of differences. It was never overstated or bragged about. He learned what he did about magic from school and church lessons, not his mother or her family. Magical ability never clouded his opinions of his family, or anyone else.

But a lack of magic in some strict Catholic families is seen as a lack of faith. You become a pariah. You try to be “fixed.” Smith had a friend in high school, who became his first boyfriend, and who fought with his parents a lot in those regards. If you have faith, it’s believed that you should be doing something with your magic to help others.

And if you’re not, then you’re shamed for it.

That’s why Smith is so hesitant when helping magically. It’s not that he doesn’t think he can help, it’s not that he doesn’t believe in God, in his partners, whatever...he just doesn’t know if it’s _enough_.

And if it’s not enough, is it even worth doing?

If he’s not enough, does it still matter?

Smith takes a deep breath and sighs, watching his breath fog in front of him. He fumbles his wallet out of his pocket and drops a few dollars into the collection box at the front of the grotto. He sets about lighting his customary candles. One for dad. One each for his grandparents.

There’s something calming about lighting candles for those long gone. Watching the wick catch the borrowed flame, and brightening the place with sudden warmth as he lights his own tiny beacons of hope. Keeping the people he lights the candles for in mind, without thinking too hard about the fact they’re no longer around in person. Just in spirit, and in memory.

Smith’s lost a lot, and worked hard for a lot, too. He busted ass to get into university, keep his scholarships, and graduate cum laude, no less. Things could have been easier in his life, but they could have been a lot harder, too.

His dad died before he was born; his maternal grandparents when he was eight. It was just him and his mom at home, and he worked part-time in middle school and high school to help pay the bills when his she was too sick.

He’s close with his mom, but she leads a busy life now working for various non-profits, volunteering, and doing missionary work. He misses her, and she him, but they get along well even with the distance. They Skype twice a month. Trott and Ross met her when they all  graduated, and when the three of them moved in together. She’s supportive, and knows about them dating each other. It’s a good thing to have, when Trott has such an icy relationship with his parents, and Ross has a careful uncertainty with his.

When Smith did go off to college after high school, he did well, and liked it there, so he decided to stay on to teach. He didn’t exactly expect to go into teaching, but he likes it. He didn’t expect to stay in a place so integrated with his religion, either, but he supposes that’s what was going to happen when he picked theology for a career choice. He had gone to religious schools all his life. It was ingrained into him, as natural as breathing.

As much Smith he doubted the strength of his magic, he knew his faith burned bright inside him. He felt it, especially here in this place, a warmth in his chest, humming with the prayers and charms cast by Catholic beliefs. There was strength in him, even in doubt, even in strife. No contest on that.

Smith watches the lit candles flicker for a few more moments, thinking idly about his life and those still in it. He kneels down on a padded bench close by and clasps his hands together in front of him, bowing his head and closing his eyes.

 _Show me how to trust in You,_ he prays, _and show me how to trust in myself._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes things get worse before they get better, because fixing things isn't easy.
> 
> added cws?: allusions to loss/death/grief/mental health issues; some panic-y anxiety-ish feels, that could be read as a panic attack possibly
> 
> the loose recipe I had Ross follow  
> http://www.simplywhisked.com/garden-vegetable-soup/
> 
> playlist: https://play.spotify.com/user/ghostofgatsby/playlist/5JqgVjmVtrTVmGkDZCwZfk?play=true&utm_source=open.spotify.com&utm_medium=open  
> tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/01/25/what-weird-mix-of-70s-90s-00s-style-catholic-irish-crap-is-this-playlist/
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/02/17/certamina-inter-nos-ghostofgatsby/

Trott flips through an English-Latin dictionary, searching for words to use for a spell. Ovidian rites included writing and speaking spells, lighting paper aflame, using ashes to draw simple shapes, and burning things in that shape while chanting. But he won’t burn the spell today- if at all. He’d never made a burn protection charm before and wasn’t sure his magic would liken to it. Something with generic healing would have to do...if he wasn’t too tired to figure it out at the moment.

Trott sighs bitterly and leans back in bed, rubbing the soreness out of his chest from coughing so much and letting the dictionary fall out of his hand. He stares at his flammable, organized mess of a room. Various bookshelves overflow onto the floor, lines of candles and ash sit on the windowsill, and scraps of paper, post-it notes, and polaroids are taped to the walls.

His room now is nearly identical to what his dorm room in college was like junior year- except instead of a five-foot tall stack of pizza boxes by the door, there’s a fire extinguisher. It was Smith’s idea to keep one. Trott can remember him suggesting it, the night Trott had accidentally set off the fire alarm in their dorm, trying to burn sigils while sleep deprived. Smith, the RA on duty at the time, had huddled outside next to him in only a bathrobe in the middle of February, cursing. “Next time you have trouble sleeping, mate, try some fuckin’ Ambien or something first. And buy yourself a fire extinguisher so you don’t burn yourself to death!”

To say Trott hadn’t been a fuck up back then was one of the biggest lies he’d ever heard. Who decides burning things in a dorm room at three am was a good idea? He can’t remember what he said to Smith that night, but he knows he must have looked like utter garbage, with his unshowered, rumpled appearance, and bags so heavy under his eyelids that it looked like he’d been punching himself in the face for weeks. He’d been sleep deprived, depressed, desperate, and stressed out to hell. He really hadn’t been in a good place when he met Smith...and yet the guy had taken an interest in him anyway, periodically stopping by Trott’s room on his daily rounds as an RA and making sure he was alright.

It was stupid, because Trott didn’t need a babysitter, and Smith’s ten am “let’s get breakfast, Trotty!” wake-up calls had been annoying as shit when he’d just fallen asleep hours before. But Trott had to admit that Smith’s friendship had helped shovel him out of the hole he’d been in, at least partially. If he was honest with himself, he wouldn’t be living in the same place he went to college at, and wouldn’t have started dating Smith and Ross, if he hadn’t accidentally set off that alarm back then.

“Shit in my mouth,” Trott mumbles, aggravated at himself. He rubs his eyes and takes his mug off the side table to drink the rest of the orange mint rose tea that Ross had brewed him. His analog wall clock ticks audibly in the quiet of his room, and he can hear the faucet running in the kitchen. Ross is probably making dinner now. Smith’s been gone for more than half an hour, and the guilt is settling in Trott’s stomach like stone.

 

Ross beatboxes idly as he counts the washed-up vegetables waiting on a cutting board. One each of a head of broccoli, cauliflower, and cabbage; an onion, and a zucchini. Three garlic cloves and three carrots. Two stalks of celery, and five tomatoes. Ross sets his newly-sharpened chef’s knife down beside them on the countertop, and dries his hands.

Numbers of things are important to him, magically and otherwise. Numbers are in everything, and as a result, Ross feels very at home with himself and the magic he uses. Pythagorean magic is very earthy and homey, drawn towards cooking and using things in nature to cast spells. The arrangement of things brings a sort of luck, or blessing, and it’s part of the reason why Ross likes cooking.

Cooking has defined measurements- at least some of the time. But counting what goes into a recipe is an easy way to imbue magic. There’s always a sense of _right_ and _good_ , and the numbers Ross uses have a feeling of _weight_ to them. He intuitively knows what kinds of numbers will be beneficial for imbuing spells with, and he uses his knowledge of numbers to balance out the natural successes he accrues without magic.

Right now, it helps him put together a good soup for dinner, and it might settle the lingering frustrations between his partners. Each number he uses has meaning. One is for importance, three for harmony in the home, two for growth, and five for seeking truth. Eight cups of chicken broth simmer in a pot on the stove- eight is for stability, and for rekindling foundations.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ross sees Trott creep into the kitchen and put his empty mug in the sink. He turns to him and smiles as he finishes drying his hands and sets his dishtowel aside next to the sink. “Hey, Trott. How’re you feeling?”

“Fine...” Trott leans up against the counter next to Ross and runs a hand through his hair. There’s a definite furrow between his brows, and the frown on his face makes it even more prominent.

Ross can tell Trott’s upset with himself. He knows Smith’s hurting too, right now, and all he wants to do is help fix things for them both. But it’s not his job- he’s not the mediator. He can only be support. “Is there anything you need?” he asks Trott instead.

“No,” Trott sighs, “Have you texted Smith to come back?” He stares forlornly at the vegetables on the counter, not meeting Ross’ eyes.

Ross shakes his head. “You know he’ll come home when he’s ready. And I know he’d rather hear from you himself.”

Trott nods and closes his eyes momentarily. “’m sorry, Ross,” he mumbles aloud, “I was- stressed and angry because of what happened. The fire- I’m always afraid I’m going to get in trouble for something that wasn't my fault. You know my record...and so do they. Some of the researchers can be a judgy of other magics, and most people in the department are Catholic-”

“Trott…” Ross gently pulls Trott into a hug, wrapping his arms securely around him. He leans his chin on top of Trott’s head. Trott had taken a shower earlier, and most of the disgusting smoke-smell had been scrubbed out, to Ross’ relief. Smelling that smoke on his skin, so thick, worried him deeply- if Trott had been one floor down, and less aware, things could have been a lot worse. They were lucky.

But Trott was safe now. Things we’re going to be alright.

“There's judgement everywhere, Trott,” Ross continues, rubbing Trott’s back as he coughs a little, “Smith's belief and magic isn't any less than yours, or mine. Neither of us thinks we're better. Or that you're worse.”

“I know you don’t believe that, but it’s so hard, when everyone else…” Trott sighs heavily into Ross’ chest. “I constantly have to explain myself to everyone I meet. Always. And I’m so tired of being blamed for something I did on accident. Something I did years ago. Something that happened because of-” Trott shakes his head. “It’s insignificant, now. Or, it _should_ be.”

Ross kisses his hair. “Not everyone holds that over you, Trott.”

“It feels like they do.”

“Smith and I don’t,” he reassures him.

Trott takes a deep breath and lets it out again. “I know...I _should_ know. I’m just so used to having to- I'm supposed to be able to fix shit on my own.”

“Says who? Huh?” Ross pulls back just the slightest to look Trott in his eyes.

“Says- _me_ , says everyone who doubts me.” Trott purses his lips and looks away. “It’s stupid, I know…”

Ross gently turns Trott’s head towards him again, and kisses him tenderly. “It’s not stupid,” he whispers, “ _You’re_ not stupid. You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

Trott scoffs. “Being smart doesn’t make me any better at things, Ross. It won’t stop me from fucking everything up.”

“Maybe not. But you've always been an equal around us, Trott. _Always._ ” Ross kisses him again, pressing his lips to Trott’s with utmost care.

Trott kisses Ross back and leans into him, holding him tighter. “I’m sorry for snapping earlier,” he mumbles when the kiss breaks, frowning.

“It’s not right to take that out on Smith or myself,” Ross reminds him, “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do, if that’s not what you want. With Smith or not, a protection charm, a bracelet, or something else.”

“I know. It wasn’t about that…I’m sorry, Ross.”

Ross holds him tightly, relaying his acceptance and forgiveness without saying it. “You need to tell Smith these things; not just me. I’m not him. I won’t be the go-between for you two.”

“I know... _fuck_.” Trott sighs. “It doesn’t feel right not to do so, anyway. I need to fix things with Smith, too. Both of you. I know.”

Ross pecks a kiss to the top of Trott’s head again, and lets him go. Trott walks away from the kitchen and towards his coat hanging near the door.

“Where’re you…”

“I’m going out to find Smith.” Trott raises an eyebrow at the look on Ross’ face, and sighs. “Sorry, Ross. I know I should stay and rest, I just...I need to find him, at least. I can’t sit around any more.”

Ross smiles sadly. “Well. Be careful. Okay? Be back soon- _both_ of you.” He turns back to the countertop, gesturing. “Dinner should be ready by then. I’m sure soup will be nice once you two get out of the cold.”

Trott says goodbye and leaves to find Smith.

 

* * *

 

When Smith was stressed or worried, he was always out by the grotto. Rain, snow, blinding heat, it didn’t matter. It was, however, currently winter, and just over twenty degrees Fahrenheit. Trott didn’t know how Smith could stand the cold for so long, especially when the wind cut through the trees surrounding the stone recess. Maybe the grotto was sheltered from it. It would explain why the candles stayed lit for so long, but Trott had always put that down to Catholic magic.

He pulls his jacket tighter around him in an effort to decrease the chill stripping warmth from his skin, and heads down the small steps that lead into the little valley the grotto is set in. Black iron fencing, only a few feet high, circles the exterior. Smith is kneeling just past the gate with his back turned away from Trott. The golden glow of the candlelight bathes Smith’s beanie-covered head in an aura, like a fucking halo or some shit.

 _Saintly bastard,_ Trott thinks affectionately. His lips quirk into a small, brief smile. Despite the place being empty save for the two of them, Smith hasn’t noticed his presence- too busy lost in thought or prayer. Trott opens his mouth to call out to him, but- of course- he ends up in a coughing fit.

Smith glances over his shoulder at the harsh, sudden sound, and then turns. “Trott? What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be resting…” he asks in concern.

“I should be doing a lot of things, but I can do what I want.” It was meant to be more of a dry joke, but Trott’s hoarse voice makes it sound more sullen than he intends. He clears his throat.

“Yeah, you made that pretty damn clear,” Smith bites back.

Trott curses internally. Already, things are not going how he wanted them to.

“Why are you here?”

Trott sighs. “I came out to find you…”

“Congrats, you found me, then.” Smith stands up and dusts off his pants. “Did Ross send you?”

“No.” Trott frowns.

“Does Ross even know you’re _gone?_ ”

“Yeah, he was finishing dinner when I left.”

“Well...you should get back,” Smith says gently.

“Do you _want_ me to leave?” Trott raises an eyebrow at him, bitter. It wasn’t like Trott wasn't allowed on the campus near the grotto, or even _in_ it if he wanted, but it was completely likely that Smith didn't want him here, invading his privacy.

“Dammit, Trott, I-” Smith limps over, rubbing the numbness out of his knees as he rounds the gate in the fence. He stares at the tracks in the thin layer of snow instead of at Trott.

“Okay...maybe I was too worried about you today,” he mutters sullenly, “Maybe I worry too much in general, I just- you know what I’m like, when someone I know is hurting. And I’m always afraid that- I’m afraid it won’t be _enough_. I’ve already lost so much, you _know_ that…” Smith grinds his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut tight momentarily.

“Smith…” Trott steps closer to him and tries to take his hand, but this time, Smith’s the one who shies away. His breathing is so ragged, like the words themselves are smoke caught in his lungs. Like he’s the one who got hurt, not Trott. _Slow down and breathe, Smith,_ Trott wants to remind him, _just breathe, it’s fine-_ but he’s done a lot of good so far by speaking. This time, he lets Smith talk.

Smith sucks in cold air in deep breaths, staring anywhere but directly into Trott’s eyes. His voice wavers when he speaks again. “I’ve spent too much time just- just sitting next to hospital beds, unable to do anything. So fucking forgive me if the only thing I _can_ do, the only thing I know _how_ to do, is something I doubt the power of.

“God makes the decisions in the end, I _don’t_ ,” he whispers, looking at the rows of candles in the grotto, but not really seeing them. “Even if you don’t believe that.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter; what you do or don’t believe doesn’t matter to me. _You_ matter to me, Trott. You and Ross. I don’t ever want to lose you, but I know someday I will, and- and that’s fucking _terrifying_. Because I don’t want that day to be this soon.”

Smith catches his breath, left panting at the end of his sentence. He scrubs a sleeve across his face and clears his throat, turning back to face Trott.

“So. Look- I get it...my magic isn’t like yours.”

“Smith-” Trott tries to interrupt again.

Smith shakes his head viciously. “No, that’s what it’s about, isn’t it? I know you can handle your own...I get it. If you doubt my magic as much as I do, _fine_. But just let me do what I can, alright? Because it’s all I _can_ do. And otherwise...I’m powerless.”

Trott can’t say anything now. His voice is caught in his throat because of the broken look on Smith’s face as he finally looks up at him, the tremble in his jaw and lower lip. This isn’t what he meant- that’s not- oh, Smith...

Yeah. Yeah, Trott fucked up. He hadn’t meant to put the blame on Smith and say he wasn’t good enough. Fucking _dammit_. He _knows_ Smith has a thing with his magic like that, and- _fuck._

“I’m so sorry, Smith,” Trott says, hushed, “I didn’t mean it like that…” It’s a useless apology, and he knows it. It doesn’t matter what he meant. What he said still hurt him.

Smith sighs heavily and wipes his eyes. “Let’s just go home.”

Trott follows him back to the apartment, feeling like he put his foot in his mouth. They scuff their shoes against the ground and stare at their feet more than each other.

Trott came to say his apologies, and what did he do? Just fuck it up more. Good one, Trott, good one. _Fuck_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> playlist: https://play.spotify.com/user/ghostofgatsby/playlist/5JqgVjmVtrTVmGkDZCwZfk?play=true&utm_source=open.spotify.com&utm_medium=open  
> tracklist: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/01/25/what-weird-mix-of-70s-90s-00s-style-catholic-irish-crap-is-this-playlist/
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2017/02/17/certamina-inter-nos-ghostofgatsby/

“So when are you and Trott actually gonna talk?” Ross asks, dunking his steak fries into cheese sauce, “Because whatever happened the night at the grotto apparently hasn’t settled things.”

Smith gives him a look, but Ross just raises an eyebrow in return.

They were out getting a mid-week late lunch together at a local sports pub, a sandy stucco building with Garishly Blue roof tiles and shutters, with a name that Smith jokingly teased sounded like a euphemism for intergluteal sex. The interior was surrounded in blue, green, and gold, with lacquered wood panelling and wooden booths. The walls were decked out in sports memorabilia and newspaper clippings from the area.

The two of them normally ordered pale ales and burgers, but Ross elected to get a sandwich this time- prime rib on a hoagie bun, topped with sauteed mushrooms and Swiss cheese.

Smith’s eyes were watering slightly from the spice in his Cajun-style burger. The food was always good, but sometimes he thought the multitude of heat-baring additives were too much flavor-wise. After jalapenos on top of the pepperjack cheese and boom-boom sauce, you could hardly taste the beef.

“I don’t know,” Smith mutters, reaching for his beer, “It wasn’t like he didn’t apologize- he did. It’s just…” Well, Smith hadn’t been in a great mood, and a simple, “I’m sorry” didn’t feel good enough. He hadn’t actively ignored Trott or treated him any differently since. But he had to admit that dinner that night had been a tense affair. Neither Smith nor Trott had said much of anything. The following several days, the portion of the library where Trott worked was closed down, and he was given time off to recuperate. Ross kept giving them both looks throughout the week to sort their shit out, to no avail.

“He apologized to me, too,” Ross comments, “Extensively. He seemed ashamed of what he said, you know?”

Smith opens his mouth and snaps it shut again. Trott apologized to Ross? For...what, really? Being snappish? It wasn’t like he’d told _Ross_ to fuck off...

Ross raises his hands in a placating gesture at the morose look on Smith’s face. “That was his choice. I don't choose sides, I’m just a third party.”

“I know…” Smith sighs down at his plate and picks at the frizzled onions that have fallen off his burger. “I don’t hold that over either of you.” It's always been easier for Trott to talk to Ross. For whatever reason, Smith isn't sure. Maybe because he and Trott are more talkative even when they’re bitter about things, and that leads to misunderstandings. Ross just tends to be quieter and keep his bitterness to himself.

But Ross also has a calming presence about him. Smith, too, has always felt like he could talk to Ross about everything. So he can’t blame Trott for talking to Ross first.

Besides, Ross had been home that night. Smith hadn’t.

“Are you going to get something for Trott’s protection charm, then?” Ross asks instead, “Some kind of bead or trinket that I can put onto a bracelet?”

Smith hesitates, uncertain. “Trott has to want it. It doesn’t mean anything if he doesn’t wear it.”

“It does too.” Ross sighs and stretches his arm out across the table to put his hand on top of Smith’s. “Smith, trust me. Knowing you, you’ll pour your heart out through your magic. That’s all Trott needs as reassurance. And he told me it was okay for us to make one. You know Trott- he’s too afraid to ask for help sometimes.”

Smith turns his hand over to interlock Ross’ fingers with his. He brushes a thumb across Ross’ square knuckles. “Are you sure?” he asks softly. He doesn’t voice his insecurities about the strength of his magic. Somehow, he knows by the look in Ross’ eyes that he believes in him. No matter how much good it’ll do, in the end.

Ross gives him a small smile and squeezes his hand. “It can’t hurt to try.”

 

* * *

 

The church is a different place when not packed with people Sunday morning.

Smith sits in the middle of the pews, close enough to feel the heart of the magic at the altar, but in the sunlight shining through the stained glass windows. There’s a subdued quiet in the air, a sense of peace and calm. He stares around for a few moments, taking it in. Finding the glow of the tabernacle at the front and watching the candles flicker. He puts the kneeler down with a creak and metallic clunk.

Smith slides off the pew seat and onto his knees, with his forearms braced on the back of the seat in front of him. He fishes around in his coat pocket for a moment, pushing past the receipt from the bookstore to find the charm he’d bought from the religious merchandise section. He takes the charm between his hands. “Life, sweetness, & hope” is written in cursive on the bottom of the packaging, below the dangling silver pendant. It still has the little cardboard and plastic safety attachments, but it won’t impede the magic.

It’s about intent, after all.

Smith closes his eyes and silently prays into the charm. Thinking of protection, safety, and surety. All his thoughts and feelings that he wants to imbue the charm with.

Love, most of all. One of great importance. His mind flickers to Bible stories, of the self-sacrificing love of Jesus, the all-encompassing love God holds for each of his children, and the love of those willing to do anything for the people they care about the most.

 _God, guide me to do right by him,_ Smith thinks, praying hard, _Care for him as you care for me, as you have cared for me in my times of need. Keep him safe. Keep him from harm. If only for a moment, grant him the love, forgiveness, and hope that you have granted me. I would give everything to you, to prevent him from hurting. And it’s too much to ask, too much to give, but I’d do it in a heartbeat. For him, and for Ross, both._

He takes a deep breath and lets it out again, feeling the heat of the magic channeling from his chest to the metal charm in his grasp. He focuses on Trott, on wellness and good thoughts. Health. Vicariousness. Vivacity.

 _Keep him safe,_ he continues, _Guide him, and shelter him, and look after him. Forgive him his faults. Please, God, just keep him safe. At the end of the day, bring him home to us unharmed. Please. Keep him safe._

Smith opens his eyes to peer down at his hands.

He holds the charm between his thumbs, and presses his lips to the skin-warmed metal, feeling the warmth and homeliness. “ _Amen_ ,” he whispers, and the magic binds to it.

 

* * *

 

Ross hums their university’s catchy, well-known fight song as he digs through organized boxes of supplies in his bedroom office. There’s an open cardboard box on the floor next to him, with spools of string, ribbon, twine, mis-matched baubles, and pinecones from last winter. A square bento-box style container is filled with myriads of beads in varying colors, sizes, and shapes, and sits on his desk in front of him. He’d ordered beads special online for Trott’s protection charm bracelet- tigers eye in two shades, dark and light. He carefully strings the unpolished beads onto simple elastic thread, counting them as he goes. There are nine darker tigers eye beads, for viability and strength, and seven lighter tigers eyes beads for luck and good fortune. Dispersed between the orange-brown beads are silver end beads and small black beads. Two silver for peace and growth; three black for harmony and nurturing. The string is sturdy but stretchy, and all it needs is one last charm, for importance and singularity.

Ross is just stringing the penultimate bead when Smith arrives home. “Perfect timing,” he says with a smile to Smith in the doorway to his room. “Did you find something you liked for Trott’s charm?”

Smith nods, and Ross stands up from his desk and takes a small silver pendant from Smith’s outstretched hand. “It’s perfect, Smith...” His smile falls at the frown on Smith’s face. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit tired.” Smith sighs at the worry in Ross’ light blue eyes. He leans in and kisses him once, twice, and brushes his fingers through Ross’ gelled hair. “Long day, is all. Is Trott home?”

“Yeah, in his room. sleeping, I think.”

Smith frowns in the direction of the closed door a little further down the hallway. “Right.”

“I think you should give him this,” Ross says, rubbing his thumb over the bracelet in his grasp.

Smith brushes his fingers over Ross’ momentarily, looking at the strung beads in his grasp. “I’ll talk to Trott later- I don’t want to wake him up if he’s resting. It’s looks nice, though, Ross. You did a good job on it.”

Ross smiles and kisses Smith’s cheek before he moves back to his desk. “There are leftovers in the fridge for you, if you haven’t eaten yet.”

Smith nods and gives him a small smile in thanks. “Okay. I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

Ross watches him go. He carefully removes the charm from it’s packaging. The bracelet in his grasp was almost finished- time to add the last piece, tie a knot and trim the ends, and it’d all be done.

 

* * *

 

Trott had gone to bed early, taking a nap in his bedroom sometime after dinner. When he wakes, it’s well past midnight and the bed is cold. He’d left the window open, and frigid January air was creeping in.

Trott gets up, shuddering as the blankets fall from his shoulders, and shuts the window. He can hear Smith complaining like he did in college, saying, “It’s fucking freezing in here, Trott, close the damn window!” Those months where he slept alone in a cold bed had seemed so far away, but sitting here reminds him of it.

Trott clears his throat uncomfortably and pads into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Ross is up late working- scratching away at calculations, by the sound of it. The clock on the microwave reads 3:11 am. _Fucking hell_ , Trott thinks, and finishes his glass of water. He turns to go back to bed and drag Ross with him, but stops when he spots something on the island counter.

It’s a bracelet. Orange-brown beads and a glimmer of silver. Trott moves to pick it up, and his eyes widen at the subtle hum and warmth of Ross and Smith’s intertwined magics. He had a hard time noticing their work like this. Magic was something he constantly felt he had to legitimize.

A silver charm dangles from the middle as Trott carefully puts it on. A saint charm of some type? He knows it’s Smith’s work. The metal is warm to the touch, like Smith had just set it down after carrying it in his pocket all day. But Trott knew that was only the magic keeping it like that, because Smith had probably come home hours ago.

He leaves the kitchen and walks back down the hallway, knocking quietly on Ross’ open door.

“Hm?” Ross lifts his head up from staring at the paperwork piled neatly on his desk. “Shit, you need something? What time is it?”

“Late.” Trott smiles at Ross’ overworked expression. “Come to bed.”

“Sure thing, Trott.” Ross rubs his eyes tiredly.

“And Ross? Thanks.”

“Of course.” Ross smiles. “Let me finish this up and I’ll be there in a minute.”

Trott continues down the hallway to Smith’s room. Each of them had their own separate room, so they could work, study, or grade papers in peace. But they sleep in Smith’s room almost every night. Trott’s a little sad no one woke him- he doesn’t like waking up alone, on his own, anymore.

He knocks lightly on Smith’s door and creeps inside. There’s a metal cross above the lightswitch, glimmering in the strip of light shining between the blinds. A pile of possibly dirty laundry sits on the floor on one side of the bed. Smith has his back turned towards him in bed. He muffles a snore into the pillow and Trott snickers.

“Smith.” Trott shakes his shoulder gently as he slides into bed, curling up beside him. “Hey, Smith...”

“Hmrg?” Smith rolls over, half awake, and smashes his face into Trott’s chest, nuzzling the fabric of his t-shirt.

Trott kisses the top of his head. “I’m sorry, Smith,” he apologizes quietly.

Smith huffs a sigh. Trott curls his arm around him. The bracelet drags across Smith’s back and he hums in surprise. He shifts his head back in the pillow and cracks open an eye to peer at Trott. “You’re wearing it?” he asks, voice roughened from sleep, “I didn’t think you would...”

Trott nods. “I don’t recognize the charm on it. Is it a saint?” He brushes the fringe out of Smith’s eyes.

“Angel,” Smith mumbles, settling down again, lips pressing half a kiss to Trott’s clothed shoulder. “Gabriel. Patron of messengers and words and shit.”

Trott snorts. “Very eloquent description, Smith.”

“Fuck you, I was asleep. I was worried about you, you stubborn, prickly bastard.” There’s still an edge of hurt to his words.

Trott frowns and rubs Smith’s back. “I’m sorry. For being such a prick about it. It’s not fair on you for me to take out my stress and anger on you. I’m sorry for being cagey and bitter with you at the grotto, and for my passive-aggressive bullshit.”

Smith sighs heavily. “I forgive you. But it hurts, you know? You know my feelings about my magic are complicated...” he trails off.

“I'm sorry that what I said hurt,” Trott reiterates and explains, “I don't doubt your magic, sunshine. I don't doubt _you_. there are very few things I believe in, in this world. least of all myself. but I believe in you.”

Smith is quiet for a long moment, blinking heavily in the dark.

“I know you just wanted to help,” Trott continues, “I shouldn’t have snapped at you and pushed you away- I need to be better at that. I’ll try, sunshine, I promise.” He kisses his hair again.

“All I’m asking for is that, you know?” Smith says at last. He finds Trott’s other hand in the sheets and intertwines their fingers. He reaches his other arm blindly across the sheets and frowns in confusion at the empty other side of the bed. “Also, where’s…?”

Trott rolls his head towards the door with a groan. “Ross! Bed! _Come on!_ ” he shouts.

“Coming, sorry!” Ross calls back.

Trott shakes his head and turns back around. Smith cuddles closer to him with a sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://ghostofgatsby13.files.wordpress.com/2017/04/charm-bracelet-magic-religon-weird-au-what.png
> 
> https://www.etsy.com/listing/448683504/tiger-eye-bracelet-men-bead-bracelet-men?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=bead%20bracelet&ref=sr_gallery_11
> 
> "TIGER's EYE properties:  
> Tigers Eye Stone is a crystal with lovely bands of yellow-golden color through it. This is a powerful stone that aids harmony and balance, and helps you to release fear and anxiety.  
> It stimulates taking action, and helps you to make decisions with discernment and understanding, and unclouded by your emotions."
> 
> https://www.picturesongold.com/catalog/items_images/626/pe_KTSTM28815_1437169973.jpg?x=23842858e027fc3a37f6.56497753


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